Making Contact

Chapter Seven

As Argyle entered the room, he locked his eyes with Christina Hedger. She looked back into his electronic eyes for a second then looked away. He walked over to the chair across from Christina, took his time pulling it out and taking a seat. All the while he watched her squirm, trying to break free from her restraints.

“You'll hurt yourself if you continue struggling like that, Christina.”

“Fuck off, bot,” Christina spat halfway across the table.

“I'm here on behalf of the F.B.I., Christina. Things will go more smoothly with your cooperation. Wouldn't you like to walk out of here without further injury to your person, and without any more intrusion into your life?”

“Why would I say anything to a talking trash can if I had nothing to say to a real cop? I want a lawyer.”

“And one will be appointed to you as soon as possible, but for now, what you are doing can be construed as an obstruction of justice. Do you understand?”

“Go to hell,” Christina nearly spat out, glaring at Argyle with all the malice she could muster.

“There is someone killing people, Christina.”

“Someone who isn't me!”

“How can we be sure that you aren't the one committing the gruesome murders scarring these streets? Or that you aren't a comrade of the perpetrator? We can't just let you off that easily, with the lives of honest citizens being on the line.”

“Honest my ass!” Christina glared at Argyle, then went slightly wider. She looked away, trying to hide from his mechanical orbs, but it was too late. Argyle ran his finger tips along the splintered wood of the desk, Evrin's mark on the room. He mentally thanked Mother for the flexible flow metal that allowed his “skin” to bend with the broken texture, and to feel the grooves of wood. He tapped his fingers on the desk.

“I'm over here,” Argyle said, and he made sure that the smile on his face was felt in his words. “Along with pictures of the victims you supposedly know nothing about.”

“I've never seen them before,” Christina turned her face away.

“Is that so? Not even in passing?” Argyle began tapping his fingers rhythmically on the desk, slowly building up speed as he spoke. “You know, we pass by so many faces on a day-to-day basis along the path of our daily routines alone. As we go on doing what we do every day, we constantly cross paths with others doing the same exact thing. Getting coffee and breakfast, crossing the street, driving around like busy bees within the hive of the city, working hard, trying to make enough money to sustain our status-quo while striving for just a little bit more. A bigger bite of the dream here, a few quarters and a dime saved here, a little bit of weight shed there. A person with photographic memory could come up with the many faces they come across daily, while a thinking machine, depending on how they are designed, could pull up any face from any given moment in their past for a proper analysis of bone structure, eye color, and the like. A normal human being would recognize at least a dozen faces out of the masses.

“And you, Christina…” Argyle leaned forward, his fingers tapping wildly, the sound echoed off the walls and around his voice. Christina was looking back into his eyes now. Her eyes were down at his tapping fingers, then back to his eyes. She leaned back against the chair while Argyle leaned forward, giving the appearance that he was pushing her back with an invisible force. Her eyes were wide, face twitching between a fish-eyed lack of emotion and horror.

“How do you know them?” Argyle asked, his voice soft and cool while his fingers became almost a blur on the wooden table top.

The corner of Christina's lips twitched, like something was bothering her, or she was fighting a thought or word from getting out. Argyle kept tapping away with his one hand while pulling out a set of pictures, of the dead women covered in scars. He held them up parallel to his face.

“Look at me,” Argyle cooed, and Christina’s eyes obeyed. “Look at these photographs,” he said, turning his head slightly, while the sounds of his tapping fingers blended together further, until there was no distinction between the sound of one finger hitting the wooden table to the next. The sounds became a low hum like a tiny motor. Christina's eyes were more relaxed now, as she looked the the pictures. Her face was almost calm, like the face of someone waking from deep sleep. “Who are these women?”

“I…” Christina tilted her head slightly, her cheek wrinkled, “I don't know.”

“Have you seen them before?”

“Yes,” Christina replied in monotone.

“Did you kill them?”

Christina shook her head, squinting as she did so. Argyle noticed tears welling up in her eyes. He wasn't sure if they were a sign of resistance, an inkling of guilt, or that perhaps she would not be able to handle more of his special interrogation technique. He decided to ask again.

“Did you murder these women, Christina?”

Christina hesitated, then whispered, “no.” Argyle watched her closely as she spoke. As far as he could tell, she was telling the truth. He tilted his head slightly, thinking of how to proceed.

“Did you assist in the murder of these women?”

“No.”

“How do you know these women?”

“I found them using the blood drive.”

“Blood drive?” Argyle questioned.

“Yes.”

“So, you were searching for them?”

“No.”

Argyle watched Christina for a moment, processing what she'd said so far while continuing the rhythmic thrumming, then asked, “what were you searching for, Christina?”

“Candidates.”

“Candidates for what?”

“Communing with the great lord Azreloth.”

“Why were you searching for these candidates if you weren't the killer? Who made you search for them, Christina? Who's next on the list?”

There was only the whirring of Argyle’s fingers as he observed Christina and waited for an answer. There was no twitching or twisting of Christina's facial features. She wasn't fighting to keep the answers Argyle sought from him.

“Christina?”

Her eyes shifted slightly. That's when Argyle realized that her focus had changed away from him, and was now back on his metallic eyes. Something red was reflected in the blue of her eyes. Argyle didn't notice it before because it was only a hint, a speck in the sea of ice.

“Who told you to search for a candidate, Christina?” Argyle whispered, and watched.

This time, Christina slowly looked away from Argyle, at the corner of the room, and the red in her eyes spread out like a drop of blood in water. She lifted a hand as much as she could, the handcuff rattling from the shakiness of her hand, and pointed at the corner. She whispered, “him.”

Argyle raised an eyebrow. “Him? Who? There's only the two of us in here,” Argyle continued his drumming on the desk, not wanting to break the mental state Christina was under, but then jumped up out of his seat. The shadow of a hooded figure stood in the corner, with blood red eyes staring back at him. The shadow’s mouth opened to a shark toothed grin. Argyle shook his head wildly, falling back, holding himself up against the table while a burning sensation welled up in his metallic skull. The shadow bobbed as if in laughter, then shrunk into the red eyes that seared themselves into Argyle's retina's.